Strangers
by Calenheniel
Summary: [Hans x Elsa; 10 years post-film; oneshot.] She's not sure if she's really seeing him, or if it's just another phantom conjured by her memories, passing her by along the busy street. But she keeps coming back to him every night, to learn about his past, his present, and how things might have turned out if they were just two, ordinary people—just two strangers.


**Author's Note**: I wrote this on a whim and it ended up turning into this giant beast of a oneshot over the course of three days, but I'm actually quite happy with the results. It takes place roughly 10 years post-_Frozen_. And I'm sorry, in advance, to produce another dramatic Helsa piece; I guess I can't help myself, because I _love _the angsty-ness of this pairing (I promise that _Winter's End, _which I've now started posting, is really not going to be as dark). Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think once you're done reading!

Love you guys, and thanks for all your support from _The North Wind _until now.

**Acknowledgments: **Special thanks to my best friend, who wrote the beautiful poem below for me; she is truly a talented soul who encourages my writing and whose presence in my life I am eternally grateful for.

**UPDATE: **Check out some amazing fanart for this fic by teumessian-fox and lisuli79 (links on my profile page)!

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_You are master of my heart, Prince._

_All of its wild storms and icy plains you can take part, Prince._

_I long for your smile and your lies._

_Knowing it will always keep us apart, Prince._

_I have locked the doors of my life._

_And through the keyhole I see you will never depart, Prince._

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

She's not sure if she's really seeing him, or if it's just another phantom conjured by her memories, passing her by along the busy street.

_It looks _so_ much like him, though._

She holds her hand up, pausing the guards walking behind her; finally, she moves forward, one foot, then the other.

"Hans?"

She says his name—or, at least, that's what she _fears_ his name is—without thinking, without blinking, without **breathing**.

_It can't be him._

He turns around, and stares at her—stares at her with the green irises she barely remembers, but which somehow look the same as they did all those years ago.

At first, his eyes show nothing but the barest interest; then, they slowly widen, and his mouth hangs open, and he says—

"El ... _Elsa?"_

"That's _Queen_ Elsa to you, **peasa**—"

She holds her hand up again, silencing the guard. In truth, though, she's barely aware that he spoke at all.

_It's really _you,_ isn't it?_

His skin is darker than she remembers, and looks tougher—especially his hands, one of which is slinging a heavy bag of chaff over his shoulders—and even those look harder and wider, too.

She parts her lips to speak, perhaps; but she finds herself distracted by the sight of this man, who used to ride horses and fight snow beasts and swing swords _nearly straight through her neck, _dressed in the plain linen shirt and brown trousers of a poor farmer.

She barely manages a regal facade.

"You're not in prison."

His surprise at seeing her fades a little at this question—or is it a statement?—but he doesn't stiffen, or seem confused by it.

"No, I'm not."

It's so simply stated that she can't help but feel lost for words, her blue eyes staring, _endlessly_, back into his.

_I don't understand._

"I can explain inside—if you're willing to come in, that is."

He must pick up on her confusion, since he gestures to one of the shacks lining the dirt road in front of them, and she suddenly wonders, as her eyes _finally_ leave his and scan her surroundings, how she ended up here in the first place.

_You were touring the countryside of Odens, and decided to stop here for some rest._

She nods, again without thinking, and as she follows the tall man with auburn hair and green eyes, observing the way he walks forward without a hint of arrogance, she only absently remembers to glance behind her and check if her guards are following—and they are, _of course._

_He's kept the sideburns._

They're a little longer than before, and they connect, she notices, to the stubble running across the rest of his sharp features, all angles and former pride.

But it's stupid, she thinks, that his _hairstyle_ is what she's fixating on then as she walks beside him—ostensibly to keep her "eye" on him—though really, _both_ of her eyes are on him, and she's hardly even conscious of the fact that she's not scared like she should be, considering their "past."

_But he's changed ... hasn't he._

It doesn't have to be a question, since she knows the answer already, but she feels like she _has_ to ask it anyway—even if only to _herself_.

"Please—come in."

He drops the bag by the door and opens it for her, and she pauses in front of it, looking over her shoulder at her guards, none of whom look happy with the idea of the _Queen of Arendelle_ walking into a dusty _peasant's_ _shack_ on the side of a _dirt road_ in a **foreign** land.

"Will they fit inside?"

He glances at the guards—then back at her—but he drops his gaze out of respect.

"Only one or two, Your Majesty."

He sounds honest enough, and peering into the shack from where she stands, she guesses that he's telling the truth (and actually, she wonders if even _she_ will fit inside).

Her gaze drifts back to the men, waiting, suspicious, _hot_ under the mid-summer sun.

"Wait outside, please."

One of them—the same man as before, she supposes, with dark hair and a greying moustache—steps forward, and looks concerned.

"But Your Majesty—"

The hand goes up again ... and then, silence.

"Thank you for understanding, gentlemen."

Her smile and her words are stiff with formality, and the guards take the hint, bowing their heads again in deference. Normally, she never pays attention to such gestures, but as she finally steps into the hovel—and hears the door squeak shut behind her—she feels relieved that she can rely on their obedience.

_But why should I be relieved to be alone ... with _him?_  
_  
She doesn't entertain the stray thought as he pulls out an old, rickety chair for her—his only chair, probably—and he sits on his tattered mattress, full of rips and holes and dirt marks, lower down, looking _up_ at her.

She tries to stay composed, and firm, and officious, looking _down_ at him—but she sees the beaten and weary expression on his face, unshaved and speckled with dust, and her resolve falters a little.

"I guess you weren't expecting to find me in a place like this, huh?"

His voice is resigned, tired; his hands are hanging down in his lap, and they're bare, revealing calluses on his fingers.

Her gaze tightens.

"I wasn't expecting to ever see you _again."_

It's the truth, and although she doesn't mean it to (or maybe she does, just a _little_), her voice sounds harsh, resentful ... and **cold**.

He smiles then, and she's surprised to see that it's filled with remorse—something she didn't think he could feel, much less _show_ so plainly on his face—and looks away from her.

"I wasn't either, but ... to tell the truth, this isn't the first time I've seen you since—since Arendelle."

Her brow furrows; once again, she's confused, and he sees it.

"It was during your visit—nearly five years ago, now—I just managed to catch a glimpse of you during your tour of the city with the King."

He unexpectedly waxes nostalgic at the memory, his expression relaxing. She finds it odd—just as she finds _everything_ about her current circumstances odd—but she tries to remember, too.

_Five years ago ... it must have been my first trip here._

When she remembers, her eyes widen slightly, then look down at him. Her hands, which have been tensely locked together, now relax like his.

"So you saw me then. But ... what are you doing here in the _first_ place, Hans?"

It feels somehow unnatural, saying his name so casually after all that passed between them—no, she amends, all that passed between him and her _sister_—but she doesn't know how else to address him, or how to look at him, or if she should really even **be** there.

"I was exiled here, secretly, by my oldest brother, King Magnus—not long before your visit."

He grimaces as he stops there for the moment, though she can tell that's not the whole story, and from the look on his face, she guesses that he's probably reliving a bad moment.

She watches as he finally seems to shake himself of whatever force that's been keeping him silent, though his eyes are still glued to the empty space in front of him, to the creaky door he showed her through a few minutes ago.

_Feels like it's been _hours_ already._

"I was in prison before this, back in the Southern Isles. But Magnus didn't like keeping me there—he always used to say that he was just wasting food and water on me, you see."

She _doesn't_ see, not really, since she can't imagine treating anyone that way—let alone her own **family**—and so she frowns as a bitter smile crosses his lips.

"And what—he just ... _left_ you here?"

He shrugs at her incredulity, her pursed, unbelieving lips, and she realizes, then, that he accepted this fate a long time ago.

"Essentially, yes. Signed some papers with the King here—probably gave him a nice sum of money, too—and tossed me out as soon as he could. I never saw him happier."

She shudders at the image of King Magnus, whom she met, once, at some ball or other abroad—a tall, stiff statue of a man who probably never met a smile he didn't immediately hate—and her hands clasp together uncomfortably at the thought of him being "happy."

"And ... since then? You're just ... living as a _commoner?"_

She can't keep the scepticism out of her voice, the persistent disbelief. After all, men like him—born to privilege, accustomed to wearing fine suits and drinking wine and dancing all evening with beautiful girls whom they liked to seduce before attempting to _usurp their thrones_—men like him don't change just like _that_, she thinks.  
_  
But it wasn't just like _that—_he was sent home in disgrace, and then imprisoned in disgrace, and is now _exiled_ in disgrace._

She doesn't like admitting that her brain has a point, especially when what she _feels_ is mistrust, and anger, and **pain** when she looks at his face—really _looks_ at it—and she remembers Anna's heartbroken, doe blue eyes.

"I am, Your Majesty."

His reply is so short, and spoken in such a defeated way, that she finds herself feeling _irritated_ by it. Where is the man, she thinks, that charmed her little sister, that convinced an entire kingdom of his noble character, that drew up a blade and swung it down with all his might, intending to _murder her?_

It's clear, though, that that man is gone, maybe forever—and she realises, suddenly, that the one sitting by her, his eyes cast down, his freckles lost among the other specks of dirt on his cheeks, is nothing but a _stranger._

_A stranger with the same face as_ him.

She supposes it's a _good_ thing that he's nothing like his former self; at least with _this_ man, she doesn't feel as if her life is in danger, or that he hates her for some past grievance, or that he's looking down on her, smugly, as he raises a sword above her head.

But for some reason, when she looks at him, hunched over a dilapidated cot in a place not fit for _animals_, much less **people**, all she feels … is _pity_.

"And are you ... happier, here?"

It's a bizarre question to ask of him—after all, what does she care about his _happiness?_ His _well-being?_—but she feels compelled to ask it anyway, and her icy eyes stare at him, expectant.

He hesitates long enough to make her regret asking in the first place, and she silently reminds herself that she really, _honestly_ doesn't care at all about him or his current "situation"—and actually, shouldn't he still be in prison? So _why is he taking so long to answer_—

"I've found some peace, yes—I think so."

He's more thoughtful, and quieter, than she would have given him credit for; but he's still not meeting her gaze, and even though she doesn't understand why, that bothers her—_immensely_.

"Well, that's ... good."

It's all she can manage to say then, and it feels as awkward as it sounds. She thinks of Anna in that moment, and how she might have said something just as weird and uncomfortable—probably even _worse,_ knowing her—and she bites back a small smile from surfacing on her lips.

But the feeling passes before she can savour it, and she's sitting in that chair again, far from Arendelle, far from Anna, far from her daily comforts. And so she rises from the chair, and he follows her lead, though he looks surprised to see her leaving already.

_How could I stay _longer_, though?_

"Thank you for ... _explaining_ this to me. I'm not sure if we'll ever cross paths again, but ... for the record, I'm glad you're here, and _not_ in prison."

His green eyes soften, finally locking with hers, and he seems genuinely moved by her words, few and formal as they are.

"Thank you, Your Majesty—I appreciate that, truly."

She nods, as that feels like the right thing to do; then, he opens the door for her again, and it creaks noisily again as she steps out, into the sunlight, greeting the moody, overheated expressions of her guardsmen.

She turns back, briefly, to say goodbye—but there are no words on her tongue, no movement from her lips, and so she merely watches as he bows deeply to her, hiding his piercing eyes from her gaze.

_There's nothing left to say._

She's forced to make her exit when she notices a curious crowd forming around the scene, and the poor peasants begin to recognize her, the _Snow Queen of Arendelle_, whispers abounding.

She's embarrassed, then, that she could ever have allowed him to lead her into his home, and attract all this attention, all while acting so humbly and decently as to neutralise all the resentment and contempt and **rage** that she has desperately wanted to convey to him for so many years.

But she couldn't do that—she _can't_—and so she walks forward, in the direction of the carriage, her guards following close behind her.

* * *

She paces her guest room in the castle, unable to sleep, and she's not sure if she's even _blinked _in over five minutes, her feet creating a deep impression in the rug beneath her.

_I just … _left. _Just like _that.

It's troubling her, how she walked away from him, without saying anything that she wanted to say to him, or that she _thought _she would say to him—and without even saying **goodbye**.

On the other hand, she's annoyed with herself for being troubled by it to begin with, and for pacing, endlessly _pacing, _over something that _should_ be—no, that _is_—completely insignificant.

_But nothing feels resolved._

She doesn't know why even _that_ should worry her, though, considering that she still doesn't know, at the age of thirty-one, how she got her powers, where they came from, and how she's able to do everything from create a puff of snow to create living, breathing snow_men_; compared to _that, _an awkward reunion with her former nemesis seems pretty trivial.

But then, she remembers his dirty face, his hard hands, broad shoulders, worn clothes, old mattress, tiny shack, the bag of chaff—and his tired, submissive, _haunting _green eyes—and she resigns herself to the fact that this is going to bother her for a while.

_Unless I do something about it._

She frowns at the notion.

_Like _what?

Her heart tightens; it _knows._

_No. I can't. I _**won't**.

It's urging her anyway, to just give in, to do it because it feels _right_—because it feels right to do _in this moment._

She glowers, nearly stamps her foot into the rug, because _no, _it's a stupid idea, a _ridiculous _idea, and she's not that kind of person—she's not _Anna, _or Kristoff, or someone who has ideas like _this—_and she just doesn't _do _impulsive things … not since **then**, anyway.

_It's too risky, anyway._

She imagines all the trouble she might cause for everyone if things go wrong—which they probably will, since it's _fantastically _idiotic that she's still even _entertaining_ this idea—and how the guards, the servants, the King and Queen and Princess of Odens will all go searching for her in the dark of night, terrified that she's been kidnapped, or assaulted, or _worse, _all while she is out on her "jaunt."

But her stomach is roiling with excitement, since it already _knows, _just like her heart, what's coming next; nothing can stop it, not her brain, nor any shred of logical sense in it that she's acquired over the years as a purportedly proper and respected monarch.

Her eyes drop to the floor, and then look at her hands, bare and pale under the moonlight streaming into the room through the open window, and she clenches them with a resolve she doesn't want to have.

_Just _go.

She stops thinking about it, and turns her gaze to the open window, and she knows what she has to do.

_But I wish I didn't.  
_

* * *

She's standing in front of that little shack again, and even while her heart's racing, she's still mostly just amazed that she managed to get there in _one piece_.

_The powers helped._

She had practically travelled on the wind to get there from the castle, so many miles away, her snow drifts carrying her on the air, across rooftops, through hidden passageways—and somehow, she had remained fairly inconspicuous throughout, though she's _sure _she locked stares, briefly, with a young boy whose eyes had grown as wide as saucers at seeing a burst of snow flash by him in the middle of June.

_But I doubt he'll say anything._

It's a kind of _thrill_ for her, since she doesn't use her powers much anymore—well, except for the occasional demonstrations for the children, or for creating public ice rinks, or to indulge Anna in building snowmen (not _living _ones anymore, though)—but now she's exhausted from the exercise, and she's breathing, _hard, _as she draws her hood closer around her face.

She walks up to the door, swallowing uncomfortably when she's in front of it, the blood in her wrist _thumping _uncontrollably as she raises her hand to knock. She pauses, though, to check her surroundings again, and make sure that _yes, no one else is out—_and why would they be, when it was nearly one o'clock in the morning?

But the pause makes her determination waver, and her hand drops suddenly; then, her brow furrows, and she grits her teeth in anger and frustration, wondering, again, why in the _world _is she in this place? What could possibly come of such a visit, late in the night, with the guards back at the castle and the King and Queen safely asleep in their beds, and _she _dressed in little more than her night gown and a cloak, and her hair mussed and out of place and _she's_ _not even wearing any_ _makeup_—

The door opens, and her breath hitches in her throat.

"Yes?"

_He must have heard me._

She assumes that, since he always seemed like the kind of person who's naturally a light sleeper—who notices things other people wouldn't, who remembers every little detail, since it might _serve his purposes_ later—and so her initial shock quickly subsides.

She moves forward a little—far enough to be just under the shadow of the shack's roof—and draws her hood down again.

His eyes widen.

"Queen … Queen Elsa? What are you doing here?"

He's staring directly at her now, probably because he's surprised to see her, but also because she can tell that she's just woken him up, and his eyes are bleary and struggling to focus.

She swallows again, and hugs herself, embarrassed to be caught out in this _state_.

"I—I don't know."

She had _prepared _something better to say, she thinks, her lips pursing—something more intimidating-sounding, like _we need to talk_ or _I'm not through with you yet_ or _I just can't accept your _presence_ here_—but that's all that comes out, and she averts her blue eyes, too _unbelievably _humiliated by her own timidity to return his look.

_Some _queen _you make._

"Come inside, please."

He says it more easily than she ever could, and his eyes are sharper now, more _alert, _as he opens the door wider for her and ushers her inside, scanning the darkness to ensure that no one sees the unusual proceedings.

He closes the door quickly afterwards, and draws the shutter over his tiny, single window, though he just as swiftly lights a candle so that they can actually see _something _in the thick darkness. When it's lit, he puts it inside of a lantern by his bed, and then holds it up between them, the candle casting a strange, yellow glow on their faces.

Even in the dim light, however, she can see that he's changed from earlier. He shaved and washed his face at some point during the day, and there's no lingering scent of hot sweat on him from the fields; and though it seems ridiculous, she swears that even his _eyes _look brighter, too.

"Please—sit."

He motions to the same chair from that afternoon, and she sits in it as he takes his seat back on the bed, though she feels considerably more tired than she did a few hours ago, having spent the remainder of her energy on this ill-advised _adventure, _the purpose of which is still a mystery to her.

But he's tired, too, and seeing that, she becomes calmer, if not a little _guilty _at waking him up; but then, remembering what he did, and what he _said, _that emotion quickly flames out, and her eyes harden.

"I have some things I need to say to you."

A look of understanding passes over his face, and he seems more awake at this pronouncement, harsh and blunt—but he still manages a half-smile, somehow, and still manages to dent her confidence with his next words.

"I thought you might—actually, I was wondering when you'd come back."

There's something _knowing _in his tone that aggravates her terribly, and her gaze narrows, her teeth baring slightly as she replies.

"You shouldn't _ever _assume something like that."

To her utter shock, he shrugs—just _shrugs, _as if this were some _casual conversation _and not her _seriously_ trying to castigate him for his past misdeeds—and leans against the wall by the bed.

"It just felt … incomplete, earlier. You looked like you weren't finished, but then you—you just _left."_

He's speaking so _familiarly _to her now, and she wonders if it's because there are no guards waiting just outside the door, and they're alone, in the wee morning hours, and talking in fairly hushed voices, not wanting to awaken the neighbours—but whatever the reason, she can't accept it, because she's _the Snow Queen of Arendelle, _the_ Star of the North, _and she'll be _damned _if this man, this _traitor _who was imprisoned and then _exiled _to a foreign land where he now lives as a **peasant**, will speak to her in so _informal _a manner.

"And you would _presume_ to know my thoughts, _Hans?"_

He hesitates, just as he _should, _she thinks with some smug satisfaction, but his posture doesn't straighten up like she expects it to, and he doesn't really show any other signs of contriteness at speaking so nonchalantly.

"No, I wouldn't, Your Majesty. But—"

He trails off suddenly, and she's not as pleased as she thought she would be when he adds the "Your Majesty," because it feels forced, and it makes him sound _defeated _again—and that only makes her remember how she felt before, when she felt like he was just a _stranger, _and not the man that sometimes haunts her dreams at night, not the man whose blade's song _shrieks _in her nightmares.

"But _what?"_

He doesn't take as long to answer this time.

"I felt the same."

It's honest—_too _honest, she thinks, coming from _him—_and it makes her imperious façade crumble.

_What is he _saying?

He's confusing her with that sincere look on his face, but she doesn't know how to articulate her confusion except to _gawk _at him, as if he's part of some strange, circus sideshow, and he sighs.

"I mean, I—I thought it's only fair, if you came back, and wanted to say something else, Your Majesty."

She understood him the first time, so she's a little annoyed that he explains himself _again_—but she figures her shock was visible enough to warrant the repetition, and so she lets it go.

Still, it feels so _strange _to hear him—_Hans—_saying something so plainly, so _gently, _that she finds it difficult to respond even the second time around. She stares at the ground, then, thinking that if she doesn't look directly at him, maybe, just _maybe, _she can figure out something to say that's not totally pointless, or awkward, or _both._

"This is just very … _surreal _for me, as you can imagine."

She thinks that sounded all right, once the admission leaves her lips; and, emboldened by this small success, she continues—though she still doesn't look at him.

"And it's making it … _difficult_ for me to say what I wanted to say, to be honest."

She sees him nod out of the corner of her eye, since she can't help but see what his reaction is to her remark—and then he shifts in his seat a little, and gazes at her bowed head with a hint, just a _hint, _of glibness.

"Sorry—would it help if I acted like a cold, calculating jerk again?"

She blinks at the question; then, she looks up at him, and to her own surprise, an amused smile tugs at her lips—but she immediately feels ashamed that _he, _of all people, could _amuse _her, and she quickly wipes the expression off her face, frowning.

"It would help if you wouldn't _joke _about it like that."

His mirth fades at this comment, and he seems, _finally, _to be ready to discuss things seriously—but as soon as it looks this way, she starts feeling unsure of herself again, and she wonders if _she's _ready to do that herself.

"I'm sorry—I shouldn't have, Your Majesty."

It feels like the tenth time he's apologised to her that day, though it's probably only the second or third; and she tries hard not to believe the apology, since it doesn't sound right coming out of his mouth, from those dry, peach-coloured lips, and believing it would just be too _confusing_, and raise too many other questions she doesn't want to think about.

Her nose wrinkles as she grasps for something to say—something _serious_—but she comes up empty, as usual, because _why would her brain know just the right thing to say when she actually _needs _it to?_

"Have you really changed so much?"

He didn't expect _that, _she guesses, from the look on his face, somewhere between shock and bemusement. And in the ensuing silence, she bites her lip, and thinks that maybe—_probably—_he has changed, no matter how much she wants to deny it.

"Well … it's been _ten years,_ Your Majesty—"

—_or maybe _not.

"—and haven't you changed, too?"

She doesn't answer—_can't _answer—because the reply is too well- made, and too close to home, and so she stares blankly down at her bare hands, and she doesn't notice that he's looking at them, too.

"For instance … you're not wearing gloves. And you weren't wearing them earlier, either, I noticed."

_Of _course _you noticed._

But then, she thinks, why _wouldn't _he have noticed—since, up until today, she's been wearing gloves in nearly all of his memories, and for a girl who used to be absolutely _terrified _of going without them, it probably _is _pretty unusual to see her now, with her bare, pale hands glowing under the lantern-light.

Still, the observation irks her, and she eyes him with a sharp rebuke in mind.

"I don't _need _to wear them anymore."

He nods, _understandingly, _and now she is even _more _annoyed.

"I can see that—it's been so long, after all. You must be able to control your powers better, now, Your Majesty."

There's that odd little "Your Majesty" thrown in at the end again, she notes, and though he means it to soften the offensiveness of his otherwise relaxed manner of speaking, it _doesn't, _and her hands clench.

"And what about you, _Hans? _How have you … _changed?"_

There's a smidgen of exasperation in his expression, but it's gone in a second when he catches her irritated look. Still, his reply gives him away, and he gestures wearily to their cramped surroundings.

"Not to be rude, Your Majesty, but … isn't it obvious?"

Her cheeks flush, and she presses her hands tightly into her lap, staring crossly at him.

"Just because you're living like _this _doesn't mean **you**, as a person, have changed."

He's quiet again as he considers her words, and she wonders, absently, if he was this … _thoughtful _before.

_Calculating, certainly, but … _thoughtful?

"I suppose you're right, but … I think I have."

Her brow furrows.

"_How, _though?"

He smiles, then—but it's a sad smile, and her forehead uncrinkles at the sight. She's unwittingly _drawn _to that rueful curve of his lips, and of the way his face looks in that moment, genuine and repentant—but also _soft_.

"I know what I did was wrong, Your Majesty—to you, to the princess, to _Arendelle—_I can say that now, and _mean _it, when I wouldn't have been able to in the past."

Her lip trembles a little at the memories as they flood her mind: the coronation, the ball, Anna's giggles, the _flash _of jagged ice across the floor, running across the fjord, the North Mountain—but she manages to keep them at bay, at least for the moment, so that she can actually _speak._

"And why—why weren't you able to, back then?"

His lips pull his smile down into a half-frown.

"I was proud, and stubborn. I thought I'd rise from the ashes again, like some damn _phoenix, _maybe even get my revenge. I thought I was _invincible."_

He grimaces at that word, and she nearly does as well, hearing him talk about himself that way, as if his youth is over and he's now a bitter, world-weary old man … even though she's quite certain that he's not much older than her.

_No more than two or three years older._

"And … well, to tell the truth, Your Majesty, I—I wasn't sorry. Not at first, anyway."

Her skin goes cold at the admission, and she's not looking at him anymore—no, not _this _Hans, the storyteller by the flame, but the _other _Hans, the one who leaves people to _die in the cold _and is willing to _kill _in order to achieve his aims—and she is hardly aware of it, but the temperature in the shack has dropped considerably, and the man across from her is shivering, and staring with surprise at the small snow cloud that has formed over his visitor's white head.

He continues when it's clear that she's not going to ask him _why, Hans—_**why **_weren't you sorry? _since she's lost in her own thoughts, and she doesn't need to _tell _him to go on when it's so plainly obvious that he _has _to—whether he wants to or not.

"I thought I had done the only thing I _could _do to be someone important—to be _noticed—_so when it didn't pan out like I'd planned, I was just bitter, for a long time, stuck in that prison cell."

He shifts in his seat uncomfortably; it's getting _colder_.

"It took a while for me to realise that I was wrong—that I had _been _wrong—and that, actually, I'd done the _worst _thing possible to be 'noticed.'"

The snow flurries stop, and the wind that has been swirling around him abates.

But she doesn't say a word.

"I started thinking that I could have done so much _good, _if I hadn't been so selfish; I could've helped build a school, or a library, or become a diplomat, or an admiral—_anything _else except the path I chose—and then, at least, I would've been able to contribute to _something _bigger than **myself**."

His words send a chill down her spine, and the cloud above her head disappears, and so does the breeze.

_Something _bigger _than _**myself**.

He reminds her, unintentionally, of her _own _selfishness in the past—her blanketing of her entire kingdom in ice and snow and miserable winter, her running away to the mountains, thinking it would be her salvation, her _freezing _Anna's poor, innocent heart—and it's almost too painful to dwell on, because she's already dwelled enough on those memories to last three lifetimes, and she doesn't really want to start a _blizzard _inside of this dingy, uncomfortable room.

Instead, she presses a hand to her forehead, ironically to _cool _it down, but she feels no less muddled than before.

_He's making too much … _sense.

"And now I do what good I can manage, in this village; I read to the children, help the old widows with their groceries, fix leaky roofs—it's nothing compared to what I _could've _been capable of, I know, but this is just … how it _is."_

His shoulders slump forward, and he finishes.

"And I've learned to make my peace with that, Your Majesty."

Her hand presses harder against her forehead; it's too much, she thinks, it's all _too much, _but she knows she brought this on herself, since she stole away in the middle of the night, and barged into his home, and demanded answers to questions she had barely even _begun _to ask.

_But he answered them all, anyway._

This bizarre but undeniable fact is not lost on her as she mulls over his story of "redemption," as it were, from start to finish—though, really, she doesn't know the start, since she's never known anything about him other than his last name is _of the Southern Isles _and he has **twelve**_ brothers?—_and she can't really say that the present is the "finish," either, because that sounds too final and dark and _fatalistic, _even for someone as cynical as her.

"I've said too much, I think. Forgive me."

She shakes her head, imperceptibly, looking at him through her fingers.

"No—there's no need for that."

Her hands fall away from her drawn features, her sleep-deprived eyes, and she smiles, lightly—_barely. _

"I'm glad you told me all this. It also gives me some … _peace."_

His eyes widen, and maybe he's shocked that she says it so easily—that she doesn't want any more apologies, or grovelling, or anything like that—and his expression allows her to smile more visibly now, since she's not afraid of him, and she doesn't care how she looks.

_I just want to … be _myself.

"I—I'm glad to hear that, Your Majesty—"

"_Elsa—_you can call me **Elsa**."

She interrupts him, and a part of her objects to the words that are spilling out of her mouth, but another has just stopped _caring _so much about **everything**, because it's exhausting and sometimes she just needs to breathe and take a break from _caring about_ _every little thing _that goes on in the world; and as she sighs, and exhales, she feels that familiar feeling of _envy _prick at her heart when she thinks of her mother and father, ruling _together, _but she's been carrying the burdens of rule **alone **all these years, and sometimes it weighs her down to the point that she wishes she were never born into this position.

But then, she sees him sitting by her, that wide-eyed look still plastered to his face, and she looks around them, and she knows that even though her life isn't _perfect, _at least it's not **this**.

"I—I couldn't do that, Your Majesty. I … I don't have the _right_ to."

Her smile dissolves, slightly; then, after a pause, it returns again, a little wider than before.

"At least call me _Queen _Elsa. 'Your Majesty' just doesn't … sound _right, _somehow."

He chuckles at this request, and she allows this, since she meant the comment to be a bit tongue-in-cheek; and besides, she thinks, his laugh is deep and throaty, and it reminds her of her father, so she doesn't mind hearing it all that much.

"All right, then—_Queen _Elsa."

They fall into silence again, after his reply—but it's a far more comfortable silence than the ones previous to it, and they're both smiling openly now, and glancing at each other from time to time, and she can't remember the last time she's allowed someone in _this _close besides Anna and Gerda and Kai.

She's a little perturbed by that notion, actually, but she brushes it off easily enough. After all, he's not _that _Hans, anymore, he's _this _Hans, and _this _Hans, she reminds herself matter-of-factly, is nothing but a newfound acquaintance whom she happened to meet while on this short trip abroad—and she'll likely never see him again after she leaves.

That last bit is _supposed_ to reassure her, but she finds, to her displeasure, that it provokes a sudden, stinging sensation of . . . _sadness?_

"Are you all right, Your—_Queen _Elsa?"

She might have appreciated how he self-corrected mid-sentence if she weren't so caught up in being vexed with herself, and her eyes snap up to meet his at the question, not understanding why they look so concerned.

"I—I'm fine. But I should probably go back, now."

_It's the _right_ thing to do, isn't it?_

She's not sure, just like she hasn't been sure of herself that whole _day, _nearly, since she first saw him walking down the dusty street outside.

But she can't summon anything else to say of value to him, or any other excuses to stay any longer than she has, and she's afraid, if she does, that it will change from night to day and _then they'll go looking for you, because you're the _**Guest of Honour**.

"Of course—I understand. Do you need me to—"

He stops there, because he must realise, then, how silly whatever was going to come out of his mouth next would sound—_do you need me to walk you home, to the _palace, _Queen Elsa? _or _do you need me to _escort _you to a local inn where you can sleep for the night?_—and she smiles again, finding it weirdly _charming _that he should have even begun to ask such a thing.

"I'll be fine, Hans—thank you."

He reddens in embarrassment, and somehow that makes him look even _more _appealing—though the fact that she can even put the words "charming" and "appealing" together with the name _Hans _makes her blood boil, slightly—and she rises from the chair again before her brain can come up with any other adjectives she instinctively disapproves of in relation to _him. _

When he moves to follow her, she raises her hand, just like she did with her guards, and he pauses.

"There's no need for you to get up. I'll show myself out."

To her surprise, he stands up anyway, and when she stares at him questioningly, he smirks—and the smirk, she thinks with a shudder, is even _more_ familiar to her than the sight of his sideburns was earlier—though, upon closer inspection, it's not so bad, and nowhere _near _as evil as the one he sports in her nightmares.

"Even if you say that, Queen Elsa—you're my guest, so I at _least _have to hold the door open for you … if you don't mind, that is."

She wants to say that she _does _mind, of course, because she _should _mind, even after this long conversation and all that he said and all that she _didn't say_—but that smirk makes her cheeks flush, and she averts her gaze, not wanting to show him the _effect _he's inexplicably having on her.

"Fine, if you _must."_

She can't help but glance at him as he opens the door, and she can see that his smirk has eased into something more akin to a _tickled_ smile; and this expression, she believes, suits him better—well, suits _this _version of him better, that is.

She draws her hood back up over her head and steps out after she sees that the coast is clear, and then pauses just outside the door, and looks back at him, and she's _grateful—_grateful that she heard what she wanted to hear, and that he was willing to say the things he did, and that she came back to hear him say them in the first place—so she leaves him with the only parting phrase that can express all of that.

"Thank you."

* * *

She is satisfied with this ending to the story for most of the next day as she goes about the regular business of a diplomatic visit, inking new agreements in the morning with the King and his Council, taking tea with the very prim and proper Princess in the afternoon (who is so the _opposite _of Anna, she thinks, and almost giggles), and wandering through the castle gardens with the Queen and her handmaidens in the early evening; in fact, she's _more _than satisfied, as a happy glow seems to practically _radiate _off her person wherever she goes, not a snowflake to be seen, and everyone she meets comments on how extraordinarily beautiful she looks.

(Not that she's not _always _beautiful, they never forget to add—it's just that she looks _especially _stunning today.)

And while the compliments and the admiring stares are admittedly nice—since, usually, she only manages to get _forced _compliment and _forced _looks of admiration on account of her "infamous" reputation as the "Snow Queen," which she _still_ hasn't managed to live down all these years_—_they're not what's keeping her mood so light and positive throughout the morning, afternoon, and into the evening.

She knows that, in reality, it's the memory of his _smile—_and all the iterations of it—that are keeping her own lips pleasantly widened, and while, on the one hand, she is happy, and bright, and calm with this image in her head, on the other, she is, well, _not._

_He shouldn't be making me feel happy at _all_._

She's been trying to remind herself of the _darker_ parts of his stories—how he wasn't sorry, how he was so _bitter _and even **vengeful **for a while, sitting and plotting against her in prison—but every time she tries, she manages only the _tiniest_ dent in her expression, and she's unable to erase that seemingly permanent smile from her face.

It's because, probably, the _positive _parts of his story stick out so much more prominently in her memory than the negative ones do; and she guesses that this was intentional on his part when he relayed his little "tale" to her so that she doesn't hate him so much anymore, and really, could she _blame _him for doing that?

_I would have done the same, if I were him._

She attempts to imagine herself in his shoes, but after a minute, she gives up, since his shoes are just too big, too _different, _to even **begin **to relate to from _her _point of view, let alone _his. _

Nonetheless, she thinks she understands him, if only a little; and she wants, to her surprise, to support his "redemption," since, in retrospect, it's a much nicer story than "The Tale of the Traitor Prince Hans, Who Betrayed Two Sisters and Spent the Rest of His Miserable Life in Prison."

_No one would read _that_ book._

She nearly snorts to herself at the thought as she sits at her desk in the guest room, and smudges her signature on some document or other she's absentmindedly signing. The ink on her hands makes her frown, _slightly, _for the first time that day, and she quickly wipes it off with a handkerchief from the dresser nearby, and decides that she's probably not in the right frame of mind to be doing work just then.

But as she tries to think of something _else _to do, the only idea that comes to mind is the one she really _can't _entertain.

_I want to see him._

At least she's able to _articulate _the thought this time without wanting to slap herself, which is an improvement over the night before, but she finds herself no less hostile to it _now_ than she was _then—_although she can admit, now, that most of the hostility is obligatory.

_You're always _denying _yourself what you want._

It's an irrefutable fact, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow as she sits by the window, looking out at the night sky, and wishing she were back home, because if she were, she wouldn't even _have _such crazy ideas, or feel impulsive, or have this odd sensation of _wanting _to do something that she _shouldn't._

She feels some measure of **control **back home over her life, and her daily activities, and her _powers, _but here—far south of Arendelle, in this place where the sun rises high in the sky and causes her to sweat in places she didn't know _could _sweat and the people look at her as if she's an alien being—here, she thinks that maybe, just _maybe _she can …

_Let it go._

That phrase haunts her to this day, since it reminds her, too vividly, of her brief and incredible happiness in isolation; and even though she _is _happy now, with the gates open, and the public friendly, and the children laughing and smiling when they see her, expecting her to _show us your powers, Queen Elsa!, _and Anna and Kristoff and Olaf living in the castle (and Sven in the stables), eating dinners together and playing games with her sister's two boys—there is a part of her that misses the mountains, the cold, the _ice._

And though it's preposterous to consider comparing what she felt _then _to what she felt with _him _the night before_, _sitting quietly together in that "house" (if you could even call it that, which she can't, since that seems too_ nice _a word for it)—she admits, at least _secretly, _that a spark of that same feeling was there, tiny as it may have been.

_So go._

Before she realises it, she's grabbed her cloak from the wardrobe, fastened it around her, and her hand is pushing the window open, _wide _open—and then, just like _that, _she glides out into the night, under a sky of blinking stars.

* * *

"Hi."

He's just as surprised to see her then as he was yesterday, if not _more _so, and her simple greeting probably doesn't help matters; and she thinks, guiltily, that this really _is _overkill, since they left things so _nicely _last night, and why come again after everything was seemingly resolved, neatly wrapped in a little box with a pretty bow on top?

But he doesn't question her return—he just opens his door again, then shuts it, draws the shade, lights the candle, sets it in the lantern, gestures to the chair—and she is relieved as she sits down in her place and him in his, because it feels _normal _in the most peculiar sense of that word.

And the fact that it _does _feel so oddly comfortable, and that he's not objecting to her coming back (not that he would or _could, _since she's the _Queen _and all) puts her mind at ease, and she's able, for the minute, anyway, to stop doubting herself so much.

"I'd offer you a drink but … the water around here isn't of the best quality."

She straightens at the remark, and looks at him, _properly, _for the first time since she arrived. Seeing that he's trying to be hospitable (and again that word shouldn't _really _be able to be used in relation to him, she thinks), she smiles politely.

"I'm sure it's fine. I could use some, anyway—I'm quite tired from, well, the _trip _here."

He grins a little.

"I'm sure."

Then, he rises from his seat, and pulls out a mug from a small shelf and a jug of water that's sitting on the windowsill, pouring out some as she wonders—no, _hopes—_that it's not too warm, since it must have been sitting there since the afternoon.

_Not that you can't just make it _colder.

Her nose wrinkles at the reminder, but she erases her brief displeasure from her face as he returns with the mug in hand, and she gently takes it from him.

"Thank you."

She tips the mug up, and she can _feel _the warmth of the drink before it even makes it past her lips; pausing the liquid there, she softly blows on it, and her brow relaxes in satisfaction as now-cold water slides down her throat, soothing its dryness.

She only notices, once the mug is in her lap again, that he's been watching her all this time—but when _he _notices that _she's _noticed this, he looks away, sheepish.

"It's nothing."

He practically _mutters _it in his embarrassment, and she can't help but smile—not politely, but _amusedly_—and her blue eyes warm at him, which only causes him to become _redder._

_Was he like this, before? I can't remember._

Her mouth turns down a little.

_Well, I didn't actually _know _him, then._

The reminder makes her stare at him more plainly than before, and scrutinise his heart-shaped face—his strong jaw and cheekbones, the freckles dotting his skin, his red brow—and after a while, he finally looks back at her, though he's smart enough to know not to gaze so _penetratingly _back at her.

"Couldn't sleep, I take it?"

It's _her _turn to blush when he asks this, and her lips, which had been slightly parted, clamp shut as she turns her face away from him.

_I don't know _what _I'm doing here._

She breathes out, resigned, eyeing him briefly.

"You could say that, yes."

He smiles furtively.

"Neither could I."

Their eyes meet, then, blue and green, and she's _excruciatingly _aware of how red her face must be; but when she sees him smiling at her so kindly, and sees his posture, easy and open and _honest, _her blush fades.

And she smiles, too.

* * *

They settle into a kind of routine over the next few days, after this second visit: she goes about her usual business during the day, taking tea and turns in the gardens with the royal family, visiting with the poor in the capitol, signing agreements, pretending to enjoy the wine at dinner (though really, it's nowhere _near _as good as her private stock in Arendelle)—and in the evenings, long after everyone else has gone to sleep, she stays up, and waits, and then flies out into the darkness, her cloak swirling behind her as a rush of icy winds carry her to him.

And with each succeeding visit, they fall more easily and more quickly into increasingly casual conversations; and though at first it's just about what she's up to during the day, and her random complaints and observations about Odens, which he confirms or corrects (lightly) or adds to with his own experience from living there, they eventually get onto more _delicate _topics—their childhoods, his _twelve _older brothers, their adolescences spent in isolation, their mutual dislike of courtly life—and she's pleasantly surprised by how much she _enjoys _talking to him about such things, and by how _good _it feels to unload all these built-up aggravations on someone besides Anna.

In truth, though, even _Anna_ doesn't have time to listen to them, anymore, since she has her boys, Alex and Finn, to look after now—not to mention Kristoff, who, ten years later, still forgets to wash before dinner and, on occasion, has to be persuaded not to sleep outside in the stalls with Sven.

(And last but not least, there is Olaf, who might as well be Anna and Kristoff's third child, at this point, for the amount of time he spends with them.)

Not that she is bitter about these circumstances, or particularly upset; she understands perfectly well that the world doesn't revolve around _her, _not even the little world of Arendelle, and so she's learned to deal with things in her own way without burdening others.

_Conceal, don't feel . . . isn't that right, Father?_

Of course, it's _not _the same as then, since sometimes, Anna sees her hiding and yells at her for it, forcing her to come out and just _say _what's troubling her—but those instances are fewer and further between than in the past, mostly on account of the children.

So when she's with _him, _and talking normally, practically _chatting _by the candlelight, she feels … _free._

Well, _free _except for that fact that they haven't really touched on … the **incident**.

Or, at least, they haven't aside from his initial expression of regret over it, on that first night—and she's afraid to bring it up again, because if she does, then will she remember why she _hated_ him for so long? Why she found it so hard, at first, to believe his contrition?

And then, if that happens, will she have to stop seeing him, and confine herself to her room in the palace for the rest of her visit—her visit which is ending in _less than three days?_

She wonders about it often—_too _often—in those final days, but she always pushes it back into the corner of her mind, not wanting him to see that it's there, _lingering _in her eyes, when they have so little time left, and she wants—no, she _needs_—to cherish every last moment of it.

* * *

"Let's get out of here, and _go _somewhere—it's your last night, after all."

She looks up at him when he makes the sudden suggestion, and her brow furrows sceptically.

"Go _where?"_

He looks off, and if the shade wasn't drawn over the window, she guesses that he would be gazing out of it; the situation being as it is, however, he's forced to visualise the options in his mind, and he's quiet for a minute as he considers them.

When he's settled on something, he smiles—and there's a hint of _mischief _in his voice.

"I know a place."

* * *

She's still trying to figure out how he convinced her to go along with this _daft _scheme when they finally arrive, a thirty-minute-long walk later, at a very large hill; she eyes him with a frown as he starts to ascend it before her, and he motions for her to follow him, grinning.

"It'll be worth it—I promise."

So she sighs in exasperation, and fumbles her way _very _inelegantly up the steep incline, nearly tripping—but he catches one of her hands before she does, and she pauses, staring at him in surprise.

They stay that way for a few seconds, hand in hand, not saying a word; and then, suddenly realising what they're doing, she pulls herself up again and he lets go, and they look away from each other, both of their faces a bright, cherry red.

She manages the rest of the climb without his help, since she can't _bear _to meet his eyes again—those green eyes that looked, in that brief space of time, as if they wanted to say something that she _can't _believe, or **accept**—but she notices that he is still glancing back from time to time to make sure she doesn't fall back down the hill, and this only makes her blush darken_._

When she reaches the top, she brushes bits of grass and dirt from her cloak and dress (she's made sure not to leave just in her nightgown the past few days, and to actually look _somewhat _presentable before arriving at his place), and she can tell he's waiting, a few paces ahead, for her to look up.

And then, she does, and her eyes widen.

_The _**sea**.

It's wide and endless and sparkling like the stars and moon above it, their light illuminating its velvety midnight blue colour, and it's no wonder, she thinks—not without a bit of awed terror—that it could swallow entire _fleets _whole into its dark abyss.

_Or just _one _ship._

She's not afraid of the ocean like she used to be, after the death of her parents; she has, after all, travelled upon it too many times to count by then, and she's been through every kind of journey imaginable—pleasant, choppy, positively _dangerous_—so she really _shouldn't _be feeling as if her heart's just dropped into her stomach then, considering all of that.

He sees the consternation in her face, and then glances out at the sea—and a look of shame passes over his features.

"I—I'm so sorry, Queen Elsa, I should have known—"

"**No**—don't be sorry. It's fine, really—it's fine."

He looks dubious at her reassurance, but he relents when he sees that she's staying firmly in that spot, overlooking the ocean, because she's determined _not _to run away from this—not when there's no good reason to do so.

And she's thankful that he doesn't follow up with _are you sure, Queen Elsa?, _because she's certain that such a question would only annoy her then, when she's trying to collect herself, and look strong, and not_ dwell,_ like she always does, on things that cannot be changed—on people whose lives she cannot save, and could _never _save.

_I'm sorry, Mama, Papa._

She allows herself this one, last thought before she settles down on the grassy knoll, not caring, this time, if pieces of the earth below cling to her garments or her bare palms, which she presses flat against it, leaning back a little.

He follows her after a moment, and sits cross-legged next to her, his arms relaxed in his lap as he, too, gazes out at the sea, his expression unreadable.

She glances at him secretly, and wonders what he's thinking about, if anything at all; then, his green, curious irises are on her, and she realises that she wasn't _glancing_ so much as **staring **at him, and her cheeks pink again.

"It _is _nice here—thank you for bringing me."

He smiles, but there's a touch of sadness at the edge of his lips, and it makes her chest hurt in an unfamiliar—and _uncomfortable_—way.

"I thought you'd like the view from here. It's … well, it's different from Arendelle's, anyway."

She thinks on that comment as she turns her gaze back to that open sea, and finds herself agreeing with him. From this hill, the view is beautiful, yes, but also _frightening_—and with no mountains or ports or ships by this side of the coast, it's hard to tell where the dark sky ends and the ocean begins, and it feels like _eternity _stretching out before them.

She has a sudden desire to reach out and touch that invisible horizon, to see if it really _does _expand out to forever, and she begins to lift her hand towards it—but she snatches it back at the last minute, embarrassed by the absurdity of her thoughts, and she plays off the movement by running that hand through her hair … though she manages to knock a few pins out of it in the process.

A frown makes its way to her features as she gropes around in the grass below for the missing pins, and he starts to feel around in the darkness, too, thinking that if they're _both _looking for them, they'll probably find at least _one _of the tiny things.

But neither succeed in finding any of the pins—because instead, their hands find each other.

Both their heads shoot up again at this, just as before; but under the pale, bright light of the moon, their flushed faces are more obvious to one another than ever. And though each expects the other to let go first, to apologise, to look terribly _embarrassed _by the fact that this was the _second _time within the last _ten minutes _that it has happened, **neither **does.

Instead, they just sit there, _staring _at each other—but, unlike before, the surprised looks on their faces eventually fade away, and their hands eventually relax to the point that, when he softly nudges her fingers up and interlaces them with his own, she _lets_ him.

There's a faint blush in her cheeks as she feels the tips of his fingers brush lightly over her knuckles, and she's gladder than ever, in that moment, that _this _Hans—the one with the work-hardened, callused hands, the hands of a _man_—is the one that's touching her now, and not _that _Hans—the one who always wore gloves, and whose hands underneath those gloves probably had a smooth, unlaboured, _false_ feeling to them.

_Those were the hands that touched Anna's face—that told her he'd already _won.

Her body stiffens at the reminder, and though she tries to pull her hand away, he keeps it there, and looks at her with that disconcerting _concern _of his.

"Elsa?"

It's the first time, she realises, that he's called her by her first name—_just _her first name, with no "Queen"'s and "Your Majesty"'s attached—but she's too irritated, and _enamoured, _by the fact that he hasn't released her yet to appreciate the informality like she should.

"Let—let _go,_ Hans."

It's a feeble request, since her lip is trembling, and he frowns at her.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

Her forehead wrinkles at that reply, though she's not trying all that hard to take her hand out of his grasp; but when she turns to look at him with a mixture of melancholy and confused ire, he sighs, and to her surprise, he lets go.

"You still don't believe it, do you? That I've changed."

She reddens at the pointed remark, but says nothing, not wanting to admit it.

He looks away from her, his back tense, and his hands clasped together in his lap—and she regrets showing him that expression, and regrets that his hands left hers … and that his _heat _left her.

"I don't blame you, Elsa, if you don't. But …"

He pauses, and stares at her again, and it practically _kills _her to see how real and beautiful and _alive _he looks in that instant, his freckled face holding her gaze so fully in his own.

"I wish you would give me a chance."

Her eyes close at that, and the memories come flooding back—the memories she has been _begging _not to come back, for fear that something like this might happen—and then, when they open again, blue and big and full of _despair, _she doesn't know what she's thinking or _saying _anymore.

"But you never gave _me _a chance, Hans—you didn't even _try."_

_No one was getting anywhere with _her.

His brow furrows—he doesn't know, he doesn't remember, he doesn't _understand_—and she just ploughs on, her voice desperately sad, hoping that perhaps, when she's done, he'll stop looking at her as if he doesn't have a _damn clue _what she's talking about.

"I could've let you in, then; I could've—"

She chokes slightly on her words as a sob rises in her throat, and she can't finish the sentence—not because she might cry in the process, but because she just _can't _finish it, because it would reveal too much, too soon, and she doesn't think he _deserves _to hear something like that—not when she can hear those old, _poisonous _words of his ringing in her ears.

"You could've … _what?"_

But he wants to know, of course, because it's natural that he would; and she allows herself to look at him, and see that _yes, he understands now, and that's why he's pressing me about it—_but she can't, and _won't, _answer him.

"Elsa."

She shudders, hearing him say her name like that—so _intimately, _she thinks, as if we're . . .

_Lovers._

"**Elsa."**

He's taken her hand in his again, even though hers is cold now, far too cold to be holding as gently and as carefully as he is—and she allows her gaze to linger on him, this time, because it's hard to ignore the person who's holding your hand like _that._

But her lip quivers, and her eyes are brimming with tears.

"I … I can't do this, Hans."

He's silent, for a moment; then, he reaches out with his free hand and tucks away the loose strands of white hair that have fallen into her eyes behind her ear, and when he's done that, he caresses the side of her face, and coaxes it to turn towards him.

_He's too close._

She knows that, instinctively, as his fingers run along her jaw, and her chin, and his thumb brushes against her bottom lip, forcing her mouth to open—but the warmth that's spreading throughout her entire body makes her forget that she's already gone too far, and let him in too close, and by the time his lips are pressing against hers, she's not thinking at all.

She's only vaguely aware of the fact that he's laid her down when she feels the prickles of countless hundreds of blades of grass beneath her back, since his lips are moving so fluidly against her own as to dull all of her other senses; and though she wanted to recoil from him just a minute ago, those same instincts are now guiding her hands as they tangle themselves in his auburn hair, and press upon his neck, and shoulders, and around the taut muscles of his back through his worn, linen shirt.

He smells like the earth, she thinks, with a hint of salt—and though she assumes that must just be the ocean playing tricks on her nose, it's too difficult to have a complete _thought _right now, when he's kissing her forehead, her closed eyes, her cheeks—and she sighs, _elatedly, _when his lips move further down, to her jaw, her neck, her _collar._

_I don't want this to end._

He nips at the tip of her nose, and then leaves one last, fluttering kiss on her lips as he lies down next to her, and she turns onto her side to face him, a pacific smile gracing her features as she tucks an arm beneath her head, gazing at him and feeling something that she can't, and _won't, _put into words.

He's looking affectionately back at her, and she wonders—no, she _hopes—_that it's the same kind of affection that she's feeling as she runs her fingers over one of his sideburns, because, actually, _she's wanted to know what they feel like for a while, now._

"You're beautiful, Elsa."

She didn't realise, until then, how powerfully those three words, stringed together in _that tone of voice, _could affect her; and her fingers pause over the side of his face before grasping it more firmly, bringing it closer to hers so that she can kiss him, really _kiss _him, and tell him what she was trying to say before without actually having to say it out loud.

He responds to her touch more strongly than she expected, but she enjoys the fact that she, too, has some kind of _power _over him … and that it has nothing to do with ice or snow.

And even though she can feel his body pressed tightly against her, and revels in his heat, wishing she could just _live _there, and she _knows, _from the way his hand is running up and down the side of her body through her dress, that he wants to go further—he stops himself, and slows down, and eventually, he's just cradling her against him, and kissing her ear and neck from behind her, making her shiver.

She knows she should be grateful for his self-control, and his awareness of her modesty; but in that moment, with his lips tracing the outline of her shoulder, and one of his hands gently rubbing the outside of her thigh, his restraint is _maddening _to her—and so she turns over in his embrace to kiss him again, hoping that they'll continue where they left off.

"Elsa …"

He kisses her back, but only for a short while, and he smiles a little at her—but the smile is wracked with a kind of pain she didn't know he was capable of feeling, and he kisses her forehead tenderly.

"Let's just … stay like this, for a while. Okay?"

Her first instinct is to frown, and refuse, and _demand _that he just **obey **her every whim, because she's the _Snow Queen of Arendelle _and he's the peasant traitor _former _Prince Hans of the Southern Isles and he has no _right _to refuse her—but the idea is so childish, even in her own _head, _that she relents, and exhales quietly, and smiles back.

"Okay."

* * *

They lay like this for what seems an eternity—and she imagines that it's as long as the endless horizon in front of them, because thinking that it's anything _less _than that is too upsetting to even _consider_—and even though he eventually falls asleep beside her, his head resting peacefully upon her breast, she's doesn't allow herself to do the same.

She's afraid, if she does, that she'll awaken again in her bedroom back in Arendelle to discover this was all a dream, and Gerda will be knocking on the door as usual to dress and beautify her for the day, all while she sits in her bed, bewildered and sad and filled with an impotent _rage _that she never had this moment on a grassy hill in Odens, looking out at the sea, holding this man in her arms.

_I don't want to forget this._

But as the hours draw on, and the sounds of wildlife beginning to stir echo all around them, she closes her eyes, and her brow is in stitches, and she feels as if she's going to cry again.

_But I _can't_ stay._

She looks down at him sleeping there, though she doesn't want to, since she knows it will make her resolve disintegrate; still, she has to see him, and touch the freckles on his cheeks, and _feel _his breath as he exhales against her, one last time.

_I'm sorry, Hans.  
_

* * *

She boards the ship headed home and waves to the King, the Queen, the Princess, and all their retainers and attendants, a polite, stiff smile on her face as she stands near the prow, looking at, but not really _seeing, _all these people who have come to say their farewells to her.

Instead, her mind's eye is off somewhere else: on a dusty road in a peasants' village; inside of a tiny shack that's falling apart and stuffy and far too warm for her liking, but where she likes to sit, anyway, on a wobbly wooden chair; on the other side of the peninsula, laying on top of a grassy hill, looking up at the night sky, the moon, the _stars._

She thinks of him, then—this Hans, _her _Hans—in that last scene with her, and he's holding her tightly, but not _too _tightly, as he points at the constellations in the sky, and whispers _you're beautiful, Elsa _into her ear, and nips at the tip of her nose, making her giggle.

And even though she's smiling, tears are trickling down her pale, cold cheeks.

_I could've _**loved**_ you._


End file.
